The Book of John
by NHPW
Summary: An unauthorized autobiography of a fictional megalomaniac.  In his much-later years, John Sheridan writes his memoirs.
1. Chapter 1: Genesis

**Disclaimer:** No copyright infringement intended; written without permission - that would be the "unauthorized" part of the title. I'm not sure yet if I'll use direct text from the show in later chapters or not, but if I do I'll make sure to mention at that point that it does not belong to me.

**Author's Notes: **This story is entirely Sheridan-centric (obviously), so reader beware of _that._ Reader also beware that I do intend to draw some biblical parallels in this story, not the least of which is the antidote in this first chapter, so if it bothers you that parts of this story scream SHERIDAN IS A 23RD CENTURY JESUS OMG, then probably this is not for you. This is one big, giant writing experiment in voice and point of view and foreshadowing and... probably some other stuff. A sub-sub heading of this story would be "NHPW throws a bunch of stuff in a big pot called John Sheridan's Life, lets it simmer and looks every now and then to make sure it's coming along OK."

**Summary:** Pretty much what the title says. In his much-later years, Sheridan writes his memoirs. The parts that are in first person are "text from the book." The parts that are in third person are stories to go along with said text, memories, moments from John's life (or, in the case of Chapter 1, before his life.)

**Note on the name of John's mother:** I don't think there's any canonical account of John's mom's name, but the book adaption of In the Beginning gives her name as Nancy. As the _movie_ is accepted canon, I ran with this.

**The Book of John: ****An Unauthorized Autobiography of a Fictional Megalomaniac**

**Chapter 1 – Genesis**

"_And the government will be on his shoulders."_ – Isaiah 9:6

Human writers have an annoying habit. …Actually, they have several, but I speak now of one in particular. It is the "unauthorized biography." For generations, literary minds have recorded opinionated accounts of the lives of Humanity's greatest leaders under this heading, and they are entitled to do so as long as their records are not libelous and as long as, when written without the consent of their subject, they are titled in part as "unauthorized."

The trouble with this is that it gives the average Human reader – not to mention the galaxy at large – entirely too much credit. Many will not know what "unauthorized" means, precisely; many more simply will not care, and will take to heart 100 percent of what they read as true and factual, no mater how much it may taint their viewpoint of the biography's subject.

It is not with arrogance that I believe one – or, God help us, more – will be written about me. It is with disgust. I know that after my passing (please, Lord, let them wait until after I die) biographers, or those who fancy themselves as such, be they supporters of my controversial career decisions or not, will pick up their pens and the recorded historical accounts of the things I have done, and they will begin to write. They'll do some research, and for the things they don't understand, they will be creative. And so, here in these pages, I am doing what I refused beyond measure to do as a soldier – I am beating them to the punch. I will fire first.

This will not be the most riveting historical record of a life – but I assure you as much as I can, it will be true. It is my story, after all. And what better place to begin… than at the beginning.

The truth is that I am lucky to have been born at all. That I was conceived, that I drew my first breath on what my mother forever recounted as "the coldest day in the history of Iowa" (I have checked the Almanac; it was not) "after 17 hours of hard labor and not a single pain-relieving drug" (I can neither confirm nor deny this, but my father is known to have shaken his head regularly at this part of the story) is nothing short of a miracle.

I know most parents feel that way about their children. I am a father – I remember the feeling well. I say it of my own birth because the fact is that by 2214, my father had abandoned all hope that he and my mother would ever have children. The heartbreaking losses they had suffered in their attempts to start a family had driven the two of them apart, driven him to an emotional breaking point – and my father was many things, but he was not an emotional man.

When I was old enough to understand the gravity of the situation – that is to say, I had lived and lost a little myself – my father told me this story, recalling it as "divine intervention." As for me… now, with my life-years dwindling and all of the facts presented to me through pain and experience, I can speculate on the truth. I do not believe any divinity stepped in on my behalf, but rather an ancient, overly parental and admittedly manipulative race who knew what I was to become before I was even a sparkle in my father's eye.

But I'm getting ahead of myself. So… in 2214, my father, David, was a mid-level bureaucrat; my mother, Nancy, was a teacher. Humans had been space-fairing for only about 60 years. To us – foolish children, playing tag among the stars – it seemed a long, long time. It would be another 30 years, and I a grown man, before the universe saw fit to put us in our place. In this time we were still naïve, still self-assured of our superiority, and so my father had no reason to believe it was anything less than fate that sent an "angel" to speak to him, to impart his patience and, finally, to orchestrate a miracle and bring him a son.

* * *

David and Nancy Sheridan were not a particularly happy couple. They had wed five years prior and in that time had suffered half again as many miscarriages. The last one had been the hardest. They'd had two first trimester losses in early 2213. When they conceived again in June and Nancy carried to three months, and then four, they'd thought, foolishly, that the child would be carried to term. Instead, Nancy had gone into pre-term labor and delivered a stillborn baby girl in late October.

Nancy still desperately yearned for a child. David couldn't bear another loss, nor could he bear the physical and emotional consequences that rained down on his wife's mind and body every time they lost a child. The result was an ever-increasing void between them. David spent more time at his office. Nancy invariably sought the comfort of a close male friend – a new friend, who seemed to come out of nowhere following their most recent loss. They fought on the weekends. The "D" word began to present itself with more and more ferocity.

It was a cold, snowy night in February 2214, and David was working late. He didn't need to work late for his job… he needed to work late for his sanity. He couldn't go home. He didn't know what to do with his wife anymore. Sometimes, she was affectionate, almost the exact same woman he'd married. Sometimes he arrived home and she was beside herself with grief; still others, he came home to an empty house, and Nancy wouldn't return until the early hours of the morning. And yet, tonight, for the third night in a row, there was a young administrative aide at his office door telling him quite simply to do just that. "Go home," he said. "It is late."

His sentence construction was odd, but David thought he detected a bit of an accent, and so he guessed English was not this man's first language. Politely, he took off his glasses and smiled in the dim light of his desk lamp. "I'll go home when I'm finished," he replied.

There was a long pause. Then, "You are finished. Go home."

"I beg your pardon?" He inquired of the aide. "I'd never even seen you around here before a few days ago; you have no authority to tell me what I should and should not do with my time. Who are you, anyway?"

A nod from the aide. "An excellent question." And David simply stared, befuddled. How was he to respond to that? "Who… are you?"

Now – David was trying to work out why it was that he felt annoyed. It wasn't that work of any great import was getting shoved aside for this pointless conversation. It was more the intrusion on his solitude and, to a point, his personal life that he resented. "I'm David Sheridan," he responded simply. "Who are you?"

"David Sheridan," the aid echoed, and David admitted to himself at that point that he felt more than a little bit creeped out. He hoped there were more people in the building than just himself and this aide. For all he knew, he started to realize, this was no aide at all, and was simply a serial killer who'd broken in and was about to tear him limb from limb. "Yes. That is the right question." He nodded again, slowly, as if confirming something for himself. "Your wife will need you."

That was enough. "I don't need you to tell me my business." Why was he even continuing this conversation? He couldn't be sure. He would never be sure, in the months and years to come as he looked back on it. "My wife does not _need_ me. She's fine. She'll _be_ fine… without me." Somehow, saying it aloud to a complete stranger seemed like a good idea. It was practice. He was convincing himself, bit by bit, of the truth… that his marriage was crumbling, and that it would soon fail.

"She wishes… a child." Now the aide stepped into the room. He looked harmless and wore the right security badge for an entry-level admin. But he knew too much. Something wasn't right. And yet… David's uneasiness had faded. He was still confused, to say the least, but that this stranger knew so much was intriguing, not frightening.

"Do you know my wife?"

"Yes."

His mind scrambled for details. "Are you… Paul?"

"Yes."

Anger, now. "Are you sleeping with my wife?"

"No. She needed someone, as you do. She talks. I listen."

It was beginning to feel like a game of 20 questions he couldn't possibly win. David threw up his hands. "What do you want, huh? What do you want from me?"

There was no response. Paul seemed almost taken aback by the question. "She wishes a child," he repeated at last. "She will _have_ a child."

"By another man," David responded with a frustrated shake of his head. "We've suffered enough on that road."

There was another long pause. "She will have a child." Paul was like a broken recording device, stuck on a single message, and yet David was unable to grasp the meaning behind it all. Was this a dream? _It must be_, he thought. _I must have conked out at my desk, and this must certainly be a dream._ "You will suffer no more loss. But your son…" Paul trailed off, as though realizing he had said too much.

"My… my son?" The word felt alien on his lips. Not just a child… a _son_. "What about my son? Are you saying that he will suffer?"

Paul walked toward the door. "He will need big shoulders," he responded vaguely without looking back. "Go home."

He left.

David stared after him for a long moment.

He stayed another hour but was unable to keep his focus on his work. His mind drifted to Paul, and to Nancy… he wondered what the two of them talked about. Was Paul always so odd? A son… he'd said they'd have a son. He shouldn't know that. There was no reason he would know that; even if he was a telepath, he wouldn't be able to predict the future.

On these thoughts, he gave up and went home.

Two full months would pass, and slowly the Sheridans would rebuild their relationship. David convinced himself he had, indeed, fallen asleep at his desk that February night, and the encounter with Paul in his office had only been a dream, a voice of his subconscious who truly loved his wife agreeing that he should give it one more shot. By the time they conceived in April, this was what he truly believed.

They waited. They waited every day for a month, two, three, four… five… for the life within Nancy's womb to be snatched from them. They refused to decorate a nursery. David formed no connection with the child, even after it was confirmed to be a son, just as Paul had predicted. He carried fear in his heart every day, jumped every time his office phone rang, afraid it would be the call from Nancy – "I need you to take me to the hospital. Something is wrong." But that call never came.

Six months. Seven. Eight. Even as delivery drew near, there was a part of David that believed the child would be delivered full-term and stillborn, that they would not take a son home from the hospital with them; that this baby would not live to see the light of day.

And then, for the first time in nearly a year, Paul appeared at his office door. David jumped, startled; he hadn't heard footsteps approach. "And so… it begins."

"So you know, then." After the initial shock, he didn't retreat from Paul's strange manner of conversation. There was no doubt what he was talking about.

"Yes." A nod of confirmation. Paul moved into the room… glided, really, as though he wasn't being carried by footsteps, but rather by a slow-moving walkway made for him alone. "What will you call the child?"

Names. They'd barely discussed names. For two people who believed in their heart of hearts that the child would not survive delivery, names were out of the question. No… they hadn't settled on a name at all. "I… I don't know."

"John."

It had an air of finality to it, as though it were a proclamation with no room for discussion. "I… really don't…" He shrugged. "We'd always said that if we had a son…" _Why am I telling you this?..._ "He would carry my name."

"Your legacy will be attended to." There it was again – a statement of fact, as though he knew things he had no business knowing.

"I don't understand."

"Good." He turned and left.

David never saw Paul again.

But his child, his son, was born three days later, on a very cold day in January 2215… a healthy baby boy, and as they had not discussed names, and the only viable option on short notice had been provided by the mysterious stranger, it came to pass that the child was named John, and he did leave the hospital a living, breathing, tiny, dependent, helpless being, full of life and promise.

And so, indeed, it begins.


	2. Chapter 2: Innocence and the First Fall

**Chapter 2 – Innocence and the First Fall**

"_My son, hear your father's instruction and do not forsake your mother's teaching." – Proverbs 1:8_

Now – if the Vorlons intervened on my behalf because they were looking for a modern Messiah, a perfect sacrifice, then they were about to be sorely disappointed. Even if they envisioned me a driven man who would feel himself striving toward a bigger, better destiny all his life, a perfect soldier – I expect they spent most of my early life shaking their encounter-suited heads wondering if they'd made the right choice; wondering where they'd gone wrong.

And they wouldn't have been the only ones.

I had an unremarkable childhood. I was an average student, much to my father's chagrin. At 5 years of age, I broke my collarbone falling out of a tree. (Some 40 years later, it would be broken again… Dr. Franklin would remark in its repair that it appeared to be a re-fracture of an old wound; that it would not have been so brittle in the hands of my captors had it not suffered prior damage. Funny, that.)

When I was almost 7, my sister Lizzie was born – in December, three days before Christmas and entirely too close to my own birthday for my liking. Before her first birthday, I employed several techniques to attempt to get rid of her – early displays of my blossoming strategic planning skills that would eventually serve Earthforce – and the Vorlons – well.

Admittedly, at this early age I was definitely still honing those skills. My tactical strike attempts included: sending her down the drain in the bathtub; selling her to our elderly neighbors; feeding her to the dog; bargaining with the woman at the local thrift store; and good, old-fashioned prayer that she would just _go away. _I said several times in my career as a soldier that I do not believe in the undefeatable enemy, that everyone has a weakness; this has not always been true. At 7 years old, Enemy Number One was my baby sister, and as far as I could see, she had no weaknesses at all. (Truth be told, I'm glad I was unsuccessful. She turned out to be pretty OK, and I'd hate to think where I would've ended up if the woman at the thrift store had agreed to buy Lizzie for $2.50.)

At 8, I would write on a classroom survey that my favorite subject was recess. I had problems with attention span, concentration and focus, and it challenged and unnerved my teachers and parents alike. But never let it be said that I had no ambitions. Many years later, when I told my parents of the position that had been offered to me as President of the Interstellar Alliance, my mother, with much glee, produced an essay I had written at age 9 in which I declared that I was going to grow up to be "a detective, a mechanic and a professional baseball player." She shared this essay with Delenn – and I am proud to say the woman still married me, though she did advise me to "not quit your day job" and that she would hire a qualified Worker Caste Minbari to fix our flyers when they broke down.

When I was 11, my father was promoted and became a diplomatic envoy, and I, in turn, became a reckless brat. You've likely heard of Army Brats… it was like that, with a little extra edge of "and my daddy will fly me to Proxima and back over lunch" arrogance. The truth was that this job kept my father very busy, and where before my birth he spent extra time at his office to avoid his wife, he now wished with every fiber of his being he could spend less time with his work and more time with his family.

I sometimes think I know _exactly_ how he must have felt. In those moments, usually late at night when I'm up to my ears in paperwork and I know David is waiting for me at home, I feel terrible for the way I treated my father. I hope he forgave me eventually for my behavior; and I try very hard in return not to begrudge my son his own moments of rebellion.

But that's now. That's after… everything. At 11 years of age, I rebelled in his absence. I'm not sure why. I think I was testing my mother's limits. When my father was home, I refused – with mounting confidence and vigor – to follow his rules. We began to fight. He had a temper, well hidden beneath his gentle exterior; it appeared I had inherited it.

At 12, I said, "I hate you."

I was a fool. On some level, it was a trait I would never outgrow. I didn't hate my father; that wasn't the problem. But we didn't know each other very well at all. What's worse? I realized about this time… that I had no idea exactly who _I was_.

* * *

"Johnny, your father's home!"

John heard the call come through the woods. He _heard_, he just didn't _care_. There was a difference. Besides, he was _busy_… and he had no great desire to go home when he knew he'd be greeted by a lecture.

His mother had likely told his father about the fight before she'd called for him, and now his father would make him sit in a chair while he yelled and screamed until he was blue in the face, at which point he would say "go to your room." John did not wish to be in his room. He was, as already stated, busy.

He'd been inspecting this tree every day for a week… yes, it was perfect. It grew just over the shallow ravine he'd been exploring for nearly a year, observing it in all its seasons, poking in every hidden nook and cranny. He met forest animals, most of which were not excited by his rambunctious presence, but they were always there when he came to visit, so he assumed they only scampered away a short distance to observe him, and that they took back their habitat the moment he was gone. He experimented with the echo of his voice off the trees above the ravine, and then… then, when he was certain there was nothing new in the ravine to be discovered or explored, he headed for those trees. He climbed the tall ones as high as he could, perching himself in the branches ten and twenty feet above the ground. He climbed them in the spring and the summer and the fall, and watched the leaves change from one day to the next. He imagined that he was a king, and everything below him – the ravine, the animals, the plants, the ground, everything – was his kingdom. He ruled the world from the branches of these trees.

In late fall, he began to form a plan in his little mind – a plan for an adventure in this little corner of the world of which he was king. He would mount an expedition to explore the sky as well.

The hardest part had been selecting the starting point for this expedition. It had taken a week of experimenting, but he'd finally found the perfect tree. It had one straight, sturdy branch that jutted out from the trunk lower than all the rest. If he shimmied up the trunk carefully, he could reach the branch just well enough to secure a rope around it – as he was doing right now – and tie a knot. It had to be a strong knot – John inspected his handiwork. He didn't know very much about knots at all, but he'd looped the rope around the branch at its strongest point three times, and then had tied four knots one on top of the other, until it was bigger than his fist. That _had_ to be strong enough to hold his weight. With a resolute nod, he shimmied back down the tree trunk, one end of the rope in his hand.

From where the knot was tied, the rope would hang down over the ravine and dangle without touching the ground if he hadn't pulled it back to the side along with him. As it was, he could only hold the very end of the rope and still keep his feet on the ground. But that was fine – that was enough. It was enough that he could swing clear of the ravine, let go, and fall weightlessly for a few seconds before his feet came down on the other side of the ravine.

He glanced one more time up at the branch, giving the rope a tug. He nodded again to himself as the branch barely moved, and then, both hands wrapped around the rope, he took several steps back so that he could get a running start.

"John J. Sheridan, just what do you think you're doing?"

The bellow of his father's voice came from probably 30 yards behind him, near the edge of the woods. John paused for only the briefest of moments – long enough for David Sheridan to notice, to know his son had heard him. And then the boy took off running, rope in hand, face contorted with new determination and a hint of defiance. He yelped as he swung out over the ravine, hands wrapped around the rope like a lifeline. "Don't look down, John, don't look down," he whispered to himself, eyes clenched tight.

Like all of John's early strategic planning attempts, he had failed to think it all the way through to its end, and so he was not prepared for the rope to swing out over the ravine… and then much too quickly back in the direction from which he'd come, but not quite far enough to set him down firmly on the ground. And then out over the ravine again, and then back, then out… he heard the branch moaning under his weight. A look up and he could see it straining, bowing… it was only a matter of time before it snapped.

And he was suddenly very, very glad for his father's intrusion. "Dad?" He called out, eyes clenched tight again. He was still swinging like a pendulum, through his momentum had slowed considerably and he could tell that when he stopped – if he stopped before the branch broke – he'd be left dangling out over the ravine.

"Right here, John. I'm right here."

"I'm so sorry, Dad."

"It's OK, John. But you're going to have to let go."

"I can't!" He'd climbed up the rope in his effort to hang on – he was a good 15 feet, maybe more, above the ground. "I'm afraid!"

"That branch is going to break, and I can't come up and get you. You have to come down on your own."

"And you'll catch me?" He chanced opening his eyes just a little. There was his dad, standing calmly next to the tree, arms outstretched.

"I'll catch you."

John clutched the rope in both of his sweaty hands, heard the branch breaking slowly overhead. He looked up… and then back down at his father, who had positioned himself directly below John in the ravine. A momentary prayer that the older man would be more merciful than this tree in which he'd sought safety, and John let go of the rope.

He got his moment of weightlessness – about ten feet more than he'd bargained for – and his father's arms caught him securely, holding him for the briefest of moments before he put the boy on his feet.

Reality set in, then, as John felt the solidity of the ground beneath him. "I'm sorry."

Silence followed. David strolled ahead of his son, who refused to meet his eyes. He put his hands in the pockets of his fall jacket – it was getting a bit cold even for that as evening fell. The days were getting shorter and colder, as always happened this time of year. To be home early enough to catch a sunset in the woods with his son was a rarity these days, and he thought on that fact as he ventured to the edge of the ravine. "We need to have a talk, John." It was setting in for the boy, bit by bit, that his father hadn't called him Johnny since he'd ventured into the woods. And then he added, "Man to man," and John knew he'd never hear his father use that nickname again.

He'd never be Johnny again, not to his dad. Something had happened. A line had been crossed. His boyhood was fading. With a brave sigh that caused his thin shoulders to rise and fall, he ventured forward to stand beside his father at the edge of the ravine. Still, he couldn't look up to meet the older man's eyes. "OK." It came out in a much smaller voice than he intended.

"What you did was dangerous. If I hadn't been here, you could've fallen into the ravine. You could've broken a leg or an arm… or worse." The last two words came in quieter, and David brought a firm arm around his son's shoulders, pulling him against his hip. "I should be very upset with you."

"I know."

"But as it is, I'm just glad you're OK." He bent down, squatted in front of John and lifted the boy's chin on one finger. "But don't you ever, ever do anything this foolish again, do you hear me?"

"Yes Sir." John was trying to assert himself, but his voice would only come out in the quiet, reserved tone he used to respond when he knew he was in trouble. That's what this was. It was trouble. There was always trouble when grownups wanted to "talk."

A nod from David and he sat down on the edge of the ravine, patting the spot beside him. John hesitated a moment before taking it, and father and son looked out toward the sunset together in silence.

"Your mother told me about the fight."

John had known this was coming. His defenses went up immediately. "Hadley always gives me his orange from his lunch. Today said no and he gave it to Shelly. A _girl_." He said the word with contempt, hoping his father would understand the sticking point.

"And so you hit him."

"Yes."

Another long silence. John hated when his father was so quiet. Nothing good ever came of it. "Oh, John," he sighed finally. It sounded almost as if he was giving up, and he brought a firm hand down to pat his son's shoulder. "It was wrong."

"But he—"

"No. No excuses. What you did was wrong." A pause, brow furrowed in thought. "You said Hadley always gives you his orange?"

"Yes." John nodded feverishly. He wasn't sure why his father had asked that, but it seemed they were still in the negotiating phase – they hadn't reached the handing down of the sentence, and so anything that seemed favorable, John would readily agree to.

"Why?"

"Because I _like oranges_." It seemed an obvious point to John, but he knew better than to say so outright – though he was sure he failed to keep it out of his tone. "And his mom always packs him one. I eat his orange and he does my math homework."

"That doesn't sound like a very fair trade."

John had the sense that this negotiation was not going very well, so he went for his last-ditch effort. He sniffled, lowered his eyes and whispered, "I'm sorry."

"Me too, Boy." David sighed heavily and pulled his son closer, hugging him to his chest with one arm and bracing the other behind his body. "Me too." A long, sad silence and John felt again that something between them was changing. Still, his father's next words were the last thing he expected to hear. "You're a bully, John."

"I _am not_." John couldn't keep the indignant tone out of his voice. He wrenched out of the hug and looked at his father with angry eyes.

The look was returned in kind, and David had had 30 more years than John to perfect it. Still, John didn't shy away. "You hit a boy in the school cafeteria over a _fruit_. You're a bully. And I… I feel like I'm somehow responsible." Another heavy sigh from the elder Sheridan. "You're not a little kid anymore, John, and I think there's some things about growing up, some things about being a man, that I haven't been teaching you very well." John said nothing. He stared at his father, uncertain of what to say or where this was going. "So I'm going to try to do a better job at that. And the very first thing… the very, very first thing I want you to learn from me about being a man is that you don't start fights. Ever."

"But he—"

David held up a single finger to silence his son, and as with all fathers and their sons, it was the ultimate stealth power move. John closed his mouth. "You started that fight, and tomorrow you will apologize to Hadley, and you will _not_ take his orange, and you will do your own math homework from now on. Starting tonight – and every night, for as long as it takes – you and I will do your math homework together. And from this day forward, wherever your life takes you, remember this. You never start a fight. Not with Hadley, not with your wife, when you have a wife, not even if it seems the other guy is mighty deserving of a good left hook. You _never_ start a fight."

Now it was John's turn to take a long, pensive silence, and his father allowed it, watching the boy carefully. "What if someone else… starts a fight with me?" came the eventual response.

"Well then." There was a bit of laughter behind David's tone, and he rubbed where goosebumps were appearing on his son's right arm. "That's the other part of this lesson. You never start a fight… but if someone else strikes first, you always… _always_ finish it."

More silence. Finally, "OK." And John looked up to find his father smiling down at him. He smiled back.

"Good." A playful hand ruffled the boy's hair, which had in recent years turned slowly from blond to brown, another sign that he was surely aging out of childhood. "You're still grounded, though."

"But—"

The one-finger silencer again, and John sighed as his father handed down his sentence. "One week for the fight," he said, "And another for this stunt with the rope – and for ignoring your mother when she called for you."

"_Two weeks_?"

"Plenty of time for me to teach you things. Plenty of time for you to think on them." Another ruffle of John's hair. "Come on. Let's go home."


	3. Chapter 3: Eternal Vigilance

See Chapter 1 for Disclaimer and Author's Notes.

**Chapter 3 – Eternal Vigilance**

_An angel of the Lord appeared to Joseph in a dream. "Get up," he said, "take the child and his mother and escape to Egypt. Stay there until I tell you, for Herod is going to search for the child to kill him." Matthew 2:13_

I would like to say that by the time Earth entered the Dilgar War, my father's lessons had had a life-altering effect. I would like to say that I was a more mature young man than I'd been five years prior in the forest, and that I did what my parents asked without question when the announcement came down that Earth – eager to make a showing on the Interstellar stage – had entered on the side of the League of Non-Aligned Worlds. I would like to say that I recognized the gravity of the situation and straightened up, and the soldier in me began to assert itself as our world was consumed by its first war in the galactic theatre.

I'd like to say it… but it wouldn't be true. So let me tell you what really happened as the Earth Alliance, as arrogant and foolish and eager to prove itself as I was, entered the universal conflict known as the Dilgar War.

Thanks to my father's position as a diplomat among the League, we had an inside track to what was going on. We'd listened to his stories for over a year, stories of a race known as the Dilgar, looking for a new homeworld as their own sun prepared to go nova. They didn't take the matter lightly, it seemed. They moved in on worlds already colonized by other races and used biological weapons on the populace. They performed cruel experiments on others, for purposes we couldn't understand. My father made me watch the news with him nearly every night during that year. He said it was important. He said I needed to learn a thing or two about what evil looked and acted like, so that I would not be surprised by its presence in the universe when I became a man.

Later, I would be glad for this. Certain enemies would almost definitely have been more of a shock to my system if I hadn't had a glimpse of evil as a young man. Until that point I'd led a very sheltered life, wanted for nothing, known no real pain or struggle. When I was punished, it was for things I brought on myself – acts of defiance, mostly. I did not know what it was like to be punished simply because you were in the wrong place at the wrong time. I did not know from physical pain, and I most certainly did not know from mental anguish.

And then, one day when I was 16, my father called unexpectedly and told my mother to start packing. We were moving to Geneva. Earth had officially entered the war. My father, as a diplomatic envoy among all the League words who were now our allies, was needed in Earthdome every day, and he wouldn't leave his family behind. Besides, he said – if things went badly for the League, our chances of survival would be better there. They had shelters stocked with food and weapons and… antidotes. The last word came with a hush of fear. Antidotes for possible biological weapons. To Humanity's credit, for hundreds of years we've been very good at knowing what viruses might eventually kill us all and making preparations for such an attack.

And I, like a stubborn child, refused to go.

Rebellion was becoming a habit with me.

If I'd only known to what degree this was for my own protection… but would setting aside my rebellious attitude have served me any better, in the end?

I don't know.

* * *

John couldn't think of anywhere else to go. He knew with a certainty that only a determined Human teenager can possess that he was not going to Geneva – but after he packed a bag and left his parents' home, he wasn't sure what to do next. And so he found himself tossing stones at the window of Betsy Mills.

Betsy was as gorgeous as they came – and as dangerous. She had a penchant for wearing skirts to school that were just barely long enough to satisfy the school's dress code and, John had found out last Friday night, she sometimes "forgot" to wear panties under those skirts. She was tall and blonde and had the biggest breasts John had ever seen.

Of course, he was willing to admit that this could very well be because they were the only ones he'd ever seen naked. Or touched. Or… well.

Friday had been something.

And now here it was, a week and a half later, after curfew on a school night and the night before his family would leave the Midwest behind and move to Geneva, and she was opening her bedroom window and peering down at him from a story above, wearing nothing but a slinky satin two-piece pajama set. "Hello Handsome."

_God._ She even _sounded_ like sex.

If John knew anything about sex. He really, really wanted to know more about sex with the goddess leaning through the window above. As it was, he could only grin back up at her like a fool.

"You runnin' away?"

John got his wits about him and cleared his throat. "Can I come up?"

She giggled, leaning over further and giving John a look down the front of her pajama top from his place on the ground below. The double-entendre went right over his head.

"How about I come down?" He shrugged in response… _whatever_. It was early spring, and the air was a bit chilly, but he didn't care. This was Betsy Mills, the hottest girl in school, and she wanted him. More importantly for all powers concerned, _he_ wanted _her_.

Her bedroom light switched off, and he waited several long, agonizing minutes, hugging himself and rubbing his forearms for warmth until the front door opened and Betsy came out, securing it behind her with a touch of her hand to the personalized locking system on her family's home. She was still wearing her pajamas but had slipped a jacket over her shoulders and pulled on shoes.

She threw her arms around him, fingers splayed across his back, and her kiss and the closeness of her body warmed him in an instant. She slipped her tongue into his mouth in the most possessive kiss John could ever remember getting from Betsy or anyone else, her arms holding him close, one knee working its way between his thighs… he moaned into the kiss. His body begged for more, and his brain begged for oxygen, but she wouldn't let him go.

"I've missed you," she whispered breathily against his lips when she finally pulled back for air. His body felt like jelly, and his brain, if examined, probably looked like it. All higher brain functioning had stopped, and he was focused only on this girl, and her kiss, and her body, and the fact that she was most definitely not wearing a bra, which made him wonder what else she might not be wearing. "But it's the middle of the night. Why are you here?"

John bit his lip, shook his head – tried to get his wits back about him. He glanced down at the bag he'd been carrying, which was now at his feet. "My family's moving to Geneva." He saw something flash through her eyes at that, but it wasn't the pain and sadness he'd felt at their impending separation. It looked almost like… anger? Frustration? And then as quickly as it had come, it was gone. "My dad's job… I'm not supposed to say anything, but… tomorrow…"

"Tomorrow Earth is going to declare war on the Dilgar." He wasn't sure how she knew, but there it was. She knew. John nodded in response.

"And my dad wants us there in the capital with him. In case… things go badly…" There it was again, the anger. And then she was clutching him to her as though for dear life, holding him close, surrounding his body with hers.

"You can't go. You can't."

If he were older, wiser, John might have questioned the desperation in her tone. They had a great hook-up going, sure, but they'd barely been going out a month. She shouldn't be so attached. _He_ shouldn't be so attached.

But teenage hormones ruled the day, and all John could think at that moment was how wonderful it would be to go through life with a picture of this woman so that he could say to anyone who asked, "_This_ is the woman who took my virginity."

Her lips found his again, and then her tongue was in his mouth again, and her hands were busy touching all the right places through his clothes, and John found himself returning the favor. He ran eager hands up her sides, caressed her behind, trailed his lips away from hers and down her neck, and then she said it.

"What do you want, John?" It was a breathless pant against his ear, heavy, sensual, and any resolve he'd had melted away in that instant. "Tell me what you want to do."

And he answered.

"I want you."

When she pulled back, her eyes were dark with what John perceived as passion, as need… he leaned forward to take possession of her mouth again, to feel her body again, this time letting his hands come up under her shirt. _Yep. Definitely no bra._ She indulged his groping hands, his wandering lips for a few moments before she pulled back again.

"And then what?"

John blinked and pulled back to stare at her. What the hell kind of question was that? "I… I don't know. I guess we'll… date for awhile, see where it goes…"

She shook her head at him. "If I let you fuck me… you're mine forever, John Sheridan."

In spite of his screaming hormones, in spite of the uncomfortable situation going on in his pants, John took a step back from her, shaking his head in confusion. "We're… too young for marriage. We're just kids."

She closed the gap he'd created between them with the most sensual step he'd ever seen, sliding her thigh between his legs once again and moving it in just the right manner to make him groan from deep in his gut. "What else are you going to do?" She glanced briefly at the bag at his feet. "Clearly you intended to run away with me. Running away means forever. Running away… means you're mine…" She kissed him again, but this time John's mind wasn't on the kiss or her busy hands or her leg between his or anything her body was doing. It was churning on her words. She hadn't said a single thing that wasn't true, and not only that – there was something about the way she said it that made him nervous.

_You're mine forever._

It echoed through his mind in a wave that was almost painful.

He pulled back from the kiss.

"I can't promise you forever." There was nothing but truth in his voice – no passion, no pleading… in that, perhaps his father was teaching him something after all. _Always the truth, John. Always._

"Then… what do you want?"

There it was again, that question, but this time when he shook his head and backed away, she didn't try to keep him close. The darkness in her eyes was less arousing and more… cold. Empty. "I… I guess I don't know."

She blinked at him. "Then I can't help you."

"But—"

"Goodbye, John."

Without another word, Betsy Mills, the most gorgeous girl in school and the first love – or lust, he wouldn't be sure later – of his life turned and walked back across her yard, disappearing into her parents' house, a shadow in the night.

John blinked back tears of loss and frustration and then, with no other options, he picked up his bag and turned around.

It was a long walk home.


	4. Chapter 4: What Makes a Man

See Chapter 1 for Disclaimer and Author's Notes.

**Chapter 4 – What Makes a Man**

_This is my son, whom I love; with him I am well pleased. – Matthew 3:17_

As it turned out, there were plenty of beautiful girls in Geneva. Some of them didn't even speak English, and some of them dressed just as seductively as Betsy Mills. And _lots_ of them found me endearing/adorable/fun/attractive and worthy of random, and increasingly intimate, sexual gratification.

It was one of these girls who would take me to bed for the first time. She was older – 21, as I recall, and a "real woman," and so my teenage brain didn't argue.

She didn't want to know what I wanted. She didn't demand anything beyond one night in which she promised to make me a man.

Ironically, afterward, I wouldn't date anyone for almost a year. She made me a man, all right; the kind of man who realized that the next time he was with a woman, he wanted it to be for love.

I don't even remember her name.

The Dilgar War continued for just over a year, until the Dilgar surrendered at the Battle of Balos in 2232 – as any history book would tell you. What the history books _don't_ tell you, however, is that my father was there when the surrender treaty was signed… and so was I.

It would be the first such meeting at which I was present. It certainly would not be the last.

It seemed that my father realized about this time that I _was_ becoming a man, at least in the lawful regard, and it was time for me to choose a path in life. I didn't have any plans to attend college; didn't have a steady girlfriend that I wanted to make my wife; and aside from baseball and a little bit of interest in history, I didn't have any real hobbies. I was directionless, and that didn't bother me. I was content to let the universe work itself out around me.

My father, on the other hand, believed that if I didn't get involved in the world, if I refused to take interest in my future, then the world would roll right over me. And so he started to take me on business trips. The signing of the Dilgar treaty was a very good first move. It sparked an interest – a very small spark, granted, but a spark nonetheless – in current events and military strategy. I remember very clearly the ride home afterward; I was relentless with my questioning. _Why_ had the Dilgar surrendered? What was different about Balos as opposed to all the battles that came before it? Why had the Earth Alliance presence turned the tide of the war – what did the Humans know that the League worlds couldn't figure out? And _why_, when we won, had we negotiated a surrender treaty? They had slaughtered millions; why had we not returned the favor?

My father was quiet for a long, long time at this last question. I remember sinking back in my seat, my questions exhausted, my mind spinning. I was sure he wouldn't answer, though I couldn't fathom why. And then, just when I had accepted that we would travel the rest of the way to Earth in silence, he looked at me, his jaw set, eyes as solemn as I'd ever seen them. "The thing about evil, John," he said, and there was something in his tone – something that said this was one of those lessons I ought to keep at the ready for later use, "is that you have to find a way to fight against it without becoming it yourself. When you are victorious, the best possible way to claim that victory is with mercy. Be fair," he stressed with a raise of his eyebrows. "I'm not saying a losing side shouldn't be held responsible for its actions. But be merciful."

He put me behind the controls of a Starfury when I was 18, and the two of us flew the triangular route to the moon and Mars and back. It was an alley I'd get to know well in my first assignment as a soldier; fitting that it should be the trip that ignited my interest in space and caused that spark lit by the signing of the Dilgar treaty to grow into a cautious flame. "Can we do it again?" I asked as we sat together on the landing pad afterward, eating lunch out of paper bags. I felt like a _real man_ then, wearing a flight suit, talking leisurely with my father in a discussion that I knew wouldn't end in a shouting match.

"Sure, John. Sure."

I sometimes think he was just so tickled to see me take a keen interest in something that he would've agreed no matter what that interest was, but he made good on his promise.

Next time we went further, and the next time, further still. Over the next three years we visited the moon, Mars, Proxima, Io, Orion… and then out of Earth's system and into others. Drazi. Narn. Centauri Prime.

Centauri Prime… she was beautiful, back then. Green trees, blue skies, topiary gardens, amazing architecture. I even met the emperor.

I wish you all could've seen it… before.

We explored closer to home as well, and I could see the pride in my father's eyes as he introduced me to world and military leaders, to his fellow diplomats, to ambassadors and presidents alike. He was carefully paving a road for me, getting me in front of the right people, and I bathed myself in the fatherly pride he exuded every time he said, "This is my son, John."

When I was 21, he took me to meet the Dalai Lama, and that visit changed my life forever. It was the tipping point for everything my father had been trying to build for me, and in me; it unleashed the fire that had been slowly building inside me over the years, and from that day I've never looked back – never regretted the choice I made as a result of a very simple question from a wise old man.

Everyone who's ever served under me has heard this story, but it bears repeating for those who've never had the privilege.

* * *

"What do you think about Buddhism, John?"

John pondered the question as he stood beside his father outside Tibet's Buddhist Temple. "I like it," he said with a slow nod of his head.

"OK. Why?"

The questions had been coming like this throughout their travels – _What do you think of this? Why?_ And no matter John's opinion, David never told his son he was wrong - though they did often have differences in opinion that led to heated discussions, even arguments. Still, it made John feel like a real adult, like his opinion mattered. It also forced him to think critically on advanced subjects, something he hadn't been very good at in school, and he was sure that was his father's intent. "Because…" He thought a moment on his words. When he was asked for an opinion on a big subject like this (_religion_. Ten years ago he would never have believed he'd be standing in Tibet, debating _religion_ with his father), "Because it's eclectic. It doesn't judge, doesn't narrow the field to one pattern of belief. It encourages peace and tolerance, and anyone can be a Buddhist."

"And do you consider yourself a Buddhist?"

John shook his head. "No. I once hit a boy over an orange." He smirked at his father, shooting him a half smile, and it was returned in kind, an almost identical facial expression.

"That was a long time ago, son. I think that misstep has been absolved, no matter your belief system." David stepped up inside the Temple, and John followed, shaking his head at his father's words.

As they entered, David removed his shoes. John, a bit flustered, followed suit. A man with remarkably wrinkled skin sat cross-legged on the floor nearby, watching them. He'd been looking forward to this visit; David Sheridan was as kind and gentle a soul as he'd ever known, and the young man who came in with him could only be the diplomat's son. They had been discussing John for years – David's concern for the boy's development, his maturity, his direction in life. The American diplomat had asked this favor, asked to be able to bring his son to dinner, in the hopes that he might learn something. The old man had agreed. It seemed the right thing to do.

John was impossibly tall – almost six feet, with room and time to grow. His hair was longer and shaggier than the old man thought necessary, but there was a sparkle in his eyes that spoke of promise and destiny. David was right. This boy was special, if only he would become the arrow in the bow.

He said very little, motioning for the pair to join him on the floor. A short time later, dinner was served. It was the same dinner the old man had eaten every night for many years – a bowl of steamed rice, accented by carrots and raisins, and green tea. The diplomat's son was respectful – when he was not spoken to, he did not speak. He ate more slowly than the old man expected, keeping pace with the others.

He wanted very much to speak with the boy alone, and so when the meal was over, he motioned with his hand. Wordlessly, David Sheridan stood, patted his son reassuringly on the shoulder, and left. Before John could move to follow his father, the old man spoke to him. "Do you understand?"

Puzzled, John remained where he was seated, shifting slightly as the cross-legged position became uncomfortable. His brow creased, and he shook his head. "No," he replied. "I'm sorry."

The old man's wrinkled skin split into a wide smile at that. "Good beginning," he said, nodding, as though John's response had led the Dalai Lama to form a positive opinion of the boy. "You will be even better when you begin to understand what you do not understand."

Well – John sure as heck didn't understand _that_, either. He waited for the elder to speak again, to explain himself further, to give John more instruction, more direction, a hint, _anything_ – but he did not. They sat in silence for several minutes before David returned to collect his son.

It was a very quiet ride home.

John spent months running those words through his head, puzzling on their meaning.

Meanwhile in Tibet, a wise old man slept better knowing there was yet still kindness and wonder in the youth of the world. He prayed for the son of David Sheridan, that he would grasp his potential soon and make something of it, for he believed in his heart that the future belonged to those who refused to settle – and this boy would not settle for "I don't understand." The simple, meaningful words spoken in the temple that day would stay with the boy, and he would puzzle them and think on them until they drove him to an action or an epiphany – or both, if he was lucky.

The old man smiled.

There was something very special about young John Sheridan.

It would likely be both.


	5. Chapter 5: Man vs Machine

See Chapter 1 for Disclaimer and Author's Notes.

**Chapter 5 – Man vs. Machine**

"_He is like a tree planted by streams of water that yields its fruit in its season, and its leaf does not wither. In all that he does, he prospers." Psalm 1:3_

When a young man or woman decides to enlist in the armed forces, there is almost always a conversation that takes place between that person and his or her parents. The exact nature varies, as do the encompassing emotions, but the root of it is the same – the parents' desire to ask, "Are you sure about this?"; to discuss openly the very real possibility that their child may die cold and alone on a faraway battlefield, or in space, or at the bottom of the sea… any number of terrible places to take one's last breath. Some parents get angry. Some say "no" as though they get a vote in the matter. Some – usually those who served, themselves – nod quietly in acceptance once they get the answers they're looking for.

Mine were divided.

My mother was opposed vehemently to the idea. My father asked the right questions – starting with the why of it, and because I was expecting that, I was prepared.

I wanted to be part of something bigger than myself. I wanted to make a difference.

I wanted to understand… myself, the world around me, the universe.

"Well," he'd said with chuckle, "I don't know as you'll ever understand the universe, Son. Hell, I've got 30 years on you and I'm still no closer to it. But I think this decision is the right one for you."

My mother cried and hugged me close. She was less philosophical and more realistic in her viewpoint. "You could die, Johnny. You could be killed. Do you understand that? You might leave here in that Earthforce uniform and never come back."

And I hugged her back and I whispered, "I know." Did I _really_ know? Had I really given my own mortality as much thought as it might have deserved? Probably not. That's the blessing and the curse of being so young, and so inherently spoiled. Nothing could hurt me. I was untouchable.

Remember earlier, when I said I was a fool?

Exhibit B.

I was 21, I was invincible, and I was excited to finally be going somewhere with my life. The next day, I submitted my Earthforce Academy application.

I was rejected.

Here I need to get something off my chest: I love my father. I do. But he meddled. He wanted me to succeed, to go far in life, and so when he found out I'd been rejected from the Academy, he "made some calls." He had friends among the brass, knew people in high places. He was a diplomat, and I was a diplomat's son, and so help him, John Sheridan was _not_ going to enlist as an ensign. I was going to get into Earthforce Academy, graduate top of my class and get a good assignment on a cruiser as an officer. There were no other options.

So there you have it. John J. Sheridan, Minbari War hero, tactical genius extraordinaire, renegade conspirator, the soldier who led an insurrection against Earthgov and went on to found the Interstellar Alliance… got into Earthforce Academy because someone owed his father a favor.

I didn't know it at the time, of course. I found out my first day of class. The shit hit the fan then – I called my father and read him the riot act. I used so many four-letter words that an observer would be hard-pressed to figure out what I was actually upset about.

The problem was not what my father had done, exactly. It was the fact that, for once in my life, I felt like I'd done something on my own. I'd made a decision, acted on it, proven my merits and potential and claimed a seat in officer training school. Now all of that was a lie. I'd done nothing. I was nobody. My father had done it all.

I threatened to leave school, but the fact was, I wasn't going to do that. What I was going to do was to prove I belonged. I was going to work hard, study, find my place and graduate with honors. I was going to be the best damn officer to ever come out of the EA, and my father would have nothing to do with it. I would pave my own road from here on in. I made sure he knew it, too.

In my first year, I was hazed. In my final year, I returned the favor – coincidentally, to a young man named Jeffery Sinclair, who would precede me as commander of Babylon 5 and go on to a greater destiny than I can explain in these pages; certainly a greater destiny than mine.

In 2239, as I prepared to graduate (with honors, in the top ten percent of my class), I certainly had no idea about my destiny, or Jeffrey Sinclair's, or anyone else's. For three years, the Academy had defined me. I was an Earthforce cadet. For three years, I'd done what someone else said, when someone else said it, how someone else wanted – Academy routines are rigid and strongly enforced. Earthforce Academy does not create individuals – it creates soldiers. It creates mold-cut military leaders. This should have bothered me more than it did back then, but I was just a kid.

That's not to say that the Academy and my instructors and peers there did me a disservice or failed to teach me anything. I think the challenge of an environment like that of the Academy is to think outside the box. Ask questions, challenge the norm, think independently and _remain a person_ – because although it's not a very diplomatic way of saying it (Dad, I can see you rolling your eyes across the lightyears), Earthforce Academy also creates killing machines. That is its prime directive, after all – train people to be military officers. Train them to fight, to survive… to kill. So help me, I was _not_ going to be a killing machine who couldn't think for himself.

It's that opinion, and a little bit of attitude and a demand for no interference on my father's part, that got me my less-than-prestigious first assignment. They thought they would teach me a lesson. Instead they gave me a life-long friend.

* * *

"Lieutenant Sheridan, I presume."

"Yes Sir."

Commander Jack Maynard smiled as he gave the young officer before him a once-over. Brand-new, freshly pressed Earthforce blues, spit-shined boots, clean-cut, and nervous as all hell. The young man's Adam's apple actually bobbed with a nervous swallow as he saluted Jack and continued to stand at attention. _Yeah, he's new_. Jack shook his head slightly. "At ease, Lieutenant."

"Thank you, Sir."

"Walk with me."

"Yes Sir."

With hands behind his back and long, calculated strides, John Sheridan followed his CO across the landing pad toward the cruiser that awaited them, the cruiser that would take them up out of Earth's orbit and toward the moon.

"You've been on this run before, I hear," came Jack Maynard's voice from over his shoulder. John had to strain to hear – they were walking into a warm, late spring wind, and that, coupled with the engine noise that increased as they approached the cruiser, muffled Maynard's words. "With your father."

"Yes Sir." John felt like he was yelling at the top of his lungs, and he still wasn't sure his words carried forward to the other man's ears. It didn't seem to matter, though. Maynard carried himself with a confident ease. The roar of the engine as they reached the gangplank cut right through John's senses and he had to reach up to cover his years, but Maynard just stopped and leaned against the gangplank's metal rail and stared right into the engine with a big smile as the wind whipped his graying hair back from his face.

"And that is the last time I'm going to mention your old man. Scout's honor." John raised his eyebrows but said nothing. He wasn't sure he could, in the wind and the noise, but Maynard was clearly right at home. "Soak it in, Lieutenant. You never realize how much you miss the engine noise until you're out there in the vacuum of space and there's no sound coming from her at all."

John was certain his ears were going to start bleeding, it was so loud. He had definitely long passed the pain threshold, but Maynard just looked at his new second-in-command, shook his head and laughed. "Come on inside."

The ship's airlock sealed behind them, cutting off the noise to all but a faraway hum, and John said a silent prayer of thanks. He followed Maynard down the narrow walkway that connected the bulky engine and bridge on either end – the design seemed silly to John. He and the other cadets had often compared these smaller, Shuttle Class ships to the barbells they lifted in the gym.

"She's not much to look at, but she's built as sturdy as they come," Maynard said now as they reached the bridge. He waved his hand with a flourish toward the navigation station. "All yours, Lieutenant. Make sure you strap yourself in. I requested you for a reason, and I don't need your brain matter splattered all over the hull the second we leave orbit."

Sheridan complied, but after he was strapped into his chair and had given the control board a once-over to make sure he knew where all the gizmos and gadgets were located, he spun around in his chair and turned a frown on his CO. "Permission to speak freely, Sir?"

"Always, Lieutenant. Always." Maynard was chuckling, grinning the way he had been since that first salute on the landing pad, and Sheridan wasn't sure he liked it. In one sense it was comforting. In another, Sheridan couldn't quite decide if he was being laughed _at_ or laughed _with_.

The lieutenant frowned deeper, and licked his lips. "I only knew I was assigned here. I… didn't know I was requested."

"Your instructor MacDougan is an old friend. When he heard I needed a new second, he suggested I snatch you up before someone else did."

"He did?"

"Uh huh." Maynard kicked his feet up on the console before him and folded his hands behind his head. It was the least professional posture John had ever seen, and he was slightly horrified.

"Why?" He knew his tone was a bit disrespectful. That didn't seem to matter at this point, even if he'd been able to control it.

Maynard sighed, looking out the window at the landing pad for a long moment before looking Sheridan square in the eyes, his smile gone for the first time. "Because we have a philosophy in common, Lieutenant. You raised several kinds of hell in MacDougan's class because you had an uncommon failing for a cadet: You believe that you wear the uniform. It does not wear you. You put it on and it doesn't make you something; you, the person inside, make decisions and choices not because they are in compliance with your directive, but because they are just and because they are _right_. I wanted you in here with me so that I could spend a good couple of years teaching you that this is the right way to think before you get shuttled onto a destroyer and face any real kind of danger; before you have to make the tough decisions. We are soldiers, but we are men. We are not machines. Never forget that, Lieutenant."

There was a long pause, both men staring at each other. Maynard had said his peace and seemed to be waiting for his second to speak, but Sheridan couldn't get his mind to settle on a proper follow up. He finally swallowed and nodded nervously. "Yes Sir."

"Good." Maynard's smile returned, and then his laugh, and John couldn't help but return it. "Now. Let's get this tin can some altitude, shall we?" He pushed several controls at his command station. "Ground control, this is _Eudora_. All systems go and we are ready for launch."

"10-4 _Eudora_, you are go for launch. Have a safe flight."

John felt the shuttle lift from the ground, angle upward, and then it seemed he blinked and he was surrounded by the familiar endless blanket of stars. _Have a safe flight, indeed. I may never come home._


	6. Chapter 6: All Alone in the Night

See Chapter 1 for Disclaimer and Author's Notes.

**Chapter 6 – All Alone in the Night**

_For he will command his angels concerning you to guard you in all your ways; they will lift you up in their hands, so that you will not strike your foot against a stone. – Psalm 91:11-12_

The Minbari War. It is possibly Earth history's greatest embarrassment – and its greatest lesson, for it is true and always has been that those who do not learn from history are doomed to repeat it.

And me? It's where I earned my stripes, the nickname "Starkiller" – and ultimately, my right to survive this war and the darker one yet to come.

I spent two years under Maynard on the Moon-Mars run, drinking whiskey, learning to navigate our local passages and generally growing up. When my stint there ended, Maynard did not request that it be extended, and I didn't ask why. We both knew, by that point. We were friends as well as fellow officers, and we knew it was time for me to spread my wings. He had given me a confidence in myself and my skills that I'm not sure I could have gained anywhere else, under any_one_ else. For that, I am forever grateful to Captain Jack Maynard – may he rest in peace.

The _Lexington_ was my next assignment. She was an old warship, but she was beautiful. From the second I met Captain Sterns, I knew I was in this one for the long haul. He treated his crew with loyalty and respect – not a requirement of a ranking officer, and it didn't take long for me to figure out he was a stand-up guy besides. So as far as I was concerned, that loyalty went both ways. As long as I had a choice, I'd choose to stay with the _Lexington_.

To dispel the rumors quickly and efficiently – yes, I was offered the position of First Officer on board the _Prometheus_; yes, I turned it down and yes, after what happened… happened, I spent months wondering if I could've changed anything had I been there. The man who was there instead of me didn't have the salt to stand up to Jankowski. Would I have?

Likely. And it's equally likely the cocky captain would've brought me up on charges of insubordination, thrown me in the brig and still fired those shots. So not only would we still have gone to war, but my career would've been destroyed, and there's no way I'd be the man I am today.

Of course, knowing what I know now, it's hard to say whether I would want to have stopped it, if I could have. Without the Minbari War, there would likely have been no Babylon Project, and the Shadows still would've come, and the Alliance… and…

Well, anyway. What's past is past.

Here's the truth about the Black Star incident: I was scared out of my wits. When I turned in my chair and saw what was left of the _Lexington_ and her crew, when I saw that Captain Sterns was dead and the chain of command said this was my ship now, there were a couple of minutes where I nearly shat myself. But my "fight or flight" instinct has always been weighted severely in favor of the former, and besides that, we couldn't flee even if I'd wanted to. Navigation was down. Jump engines were down. The choices presented to me were fight or _die_, and all I knew was that I _did not_ want to die. So I mined an asteroid field and sent out a distress signal – though I maintain that it was _not_ fake. We most certainly _were_ in distress. And when those Minbari ships showed up, I pushed the button myself.

The result was a victory for Earth, the survival of my – _my_ – crew, and a renewed hope for Humanity.

That hope didn't last, of course. The Minbari never saw my face, but they sure as hell knew my name, and they labeled me a coward and a killer within a day of the incident.

Something most people don't know about is the fact that I escaped certain death three times during the war. The Black Star was just the first. The second came as a result of a botched peace negotiation just a month later.

That's all I can say about that. Minbar is my home now; my family lives here; my wife was implicit in the events I can't talk about. Her honor means more to me than my life, _certainly_ more than this book, and I won't forsake the trust she's placed in me. I know. She knows. A few others… all sworn to secrecy. This second near-death experience never happened.

The war went on. Our people died. Humanity stood on the brink of extinction. I was bounced around from one cruiser to another, always seeming to escape the worst. I broke bones, suffered a few concussions, had my share of cuts and bruises and even radiation scarring.

I watched those around me, those who served under me, lose hope. I watched the spark of possibility die in their eyes. I attended more funerals than I care to think about and with each one, I wondered if I would be next. I wondered if my second-in-command, or someone under him, or someone I didn't know at all would have to push the button, open the airlock and say the words for me. "From the stars we came, and to the stars we return."

But it was not to be that way for me. I survived it all. Somehow… I was among the chosen to be spared. Somehow, despite my best efforts to destroy myself… somehow.

* * *

Commander Sheridan punched angrily at his control panel, aiming for the button to activate his radio. Static was the only return for his efforts. He pushed another button and spoke aloud to his onboard computer, "Fire aft thrusters."

"Aft thrusters not functioning."

"Fuck."

"Command not recognized."

Sheridan rolled his eyes and took a moment to pull his thoughts together. He couldn't move, couldn't maneuver, and couldn't call for help. He could fire his weapons, but a fat lot of good that would do against a Minbari cruiser. If they came back to check for survivors, he and his starfury would be bug splatter on the windshield.

With a sigh, he turned and tried to look behind him at what was left of his ship. He found he couldn't quite turn far enough in his bulky flight gear, and figured that was for the best. Every now and then a piece of debris or a body would float over his 'fury and through his field of vision… it was enough for him to guess. The ship was destroyed, and the crew were dead. It was a very common tale.

He let out a long, slow breath inside his helmet. "Estimate remaining oxygen."

"Estimate eight hours of oxygen remaining."

"So it's going to be a slow and agonizing wait for death, huh?"

"Unable to calculate exact time of death."

"There's some comfort in that, I guess." Sheridan folded his hands over his middle. He looked up, down, left and right, barely moving his head. He closed his eyes – and then snapped them back open. The absolute black and the silence were too much to bear – too much like death, and he'd be getting around to that soon enough.

His eyes focused on distant stars. He was near Proxima, he knew that. The Minbari had been inching closer to Earth proper with every passing day, pushing back Earth's front line into her own backyard. It wouldn't be long now, he supposed, and they'd mount their final assault.

The thought disgusted him, and he found himself cursing inside his helmet so much that it fogged up the visor. When he could barely see out, he stopped speaking and was rewarded with a response from his only companion.

"Command not recognized."

"Up yours."

"Unable to comply. Command not recognized."

His visor was still fogged. In an angry act of defiance against death and the universe, he pulled it off and unzipped his flight gear. "If I'm going to die," he said aloud, "I'm sure as shit not going to die inside a fishbowl."

"Unable to calculate exact time of death."

Sheridan sank back in his seat, staring out at the big empty before him. He found his thoughts drifting to his family… Mom. Dad. Lizzie.

Anna.

_Anna._ He sighed. _I'm so sorry, Anna. So sorry we'll never be able to have all the things I promised you…_

As an afterthought, Sheridan reached inside his flight suit and removed the photo he'd been carrying with him for the last year. Lizzie had sent him this picture of her longtime friend along with a note – "she thinks you're gorgeous." In it, Anna's face was smiling back at him as if to say, "Don't worry, John. Everything's going to be OK."

He'd only met Anna once at that point. In the last year, he'd seen her half a dozen times; for a wartime military officer, it was enough to establish deep feelings, to begin to build a relationship. It was enough that he now considered marrying her a distinct possibility.

Without permission, a single tear escaped his left eye and traced a jagged path down his cheek.

He allowed it to drip off his jaw before contorting his face and letting loose with an angry howl from deep in his gut. "Goddamn fucking son of a bitch—"

"Command not recognized."

"Computer off! Turn it all off!" There was a moment where it sounded like the closing off of a vacuum, the last of the air sucking out, and then complete silence surrounded John and he realized he'd just disabled his one and only companion and source for comfort on his own death watch. He shook his head angrily against the headrest. "Why me, huh? Why bring me all this way, let me survive this much of the war just to leave me to die out here like this?" Predictably, there was no response.

He said no more. The silence swallowed John Sheridan, turned him into one of a thousand stars, one of a thousand uniformed officers who would die today, this week, this month… he closed his eyes and let the darkness take him, consume him, crying himself to sleep and accepting the fact that he might never wake up.

He _did_ wake up, of course, and in that moment, Sheridan wasn't sure if waking up to find himself still alive and completely alone in the emptiness of space was better or worse than death. He did recognize his body's signals – his throat was very dry, his eyes equally so, his stomach rumbled with a fervor that said he hadn't eaten in at least a day and his bladder demanded release.

"What circle of hell is this?" He mused aloud, only slightly surprised at the scratchiness of his voice. It had to be pretty far down there, he thought. There couldn't be that much worse in the universe than slowly suffocating to death alone in the vacuum of space. No… this definitely had to be one of the worst ways to die, and he found himself wishing the Grey Council had seen fit to execute him last year – at least then he would've died with another, and with honor… and quickly. While the Minbari were ruthless, it seemed they did not condone torture. Their execution methods were always very clean, always very quick. Yes, that would definitely be preferable to his current situation.

Again he closed his eyes, drew a slow breath in through his nose and let it out through a closed mouth and clenched jaw. "Computer on." A flicker of lights and he was no longer alone. Artificial intelligence at this point was as good as any. "Begin recording." A red light flickered on his control panel and he nodded. "This is John J. Sheridan – Commander, Earthforce. Human, age 33. I am the last surviving crew member of the Earth Alliance destroyer _Maderna_, and by the time this fighter is found it's likely I'll have joined the others in the great beyond. But I… want someone to know… I want the _Minbari_ to know… what happened was a mistake. And because of one man's mistake, Humanity now stands on the brink of extinction. We're not all like that, and you should know… you should know what you're doing. You're destroying futures, destroying families. I… am the son of David and Nancy Sheridan. A diplomat and a schoolteacher. They both work in their own way to make a better future for our world, and I wanted to do the same. I didn't become a soldier to kill. I became a soldier to learn and to serve my world. All I wanted… was a higher level of understanding. And if it were up to me, we never would've fired those shots. If it were up to me… but it… it wasn't." He swallowed back fresh tears of regret and took a moment to gather his thoughts. "You should know that I was going to get married. I hadn't given her the ring yet, but I… I'd bought it, and I was just waiting for the end of the war, so I could be there and do it properly, in person. You should know that I like baseball and that I wanted two children. Anna wanted four. We compromised… and said we'd have three, but now we won't. Now lots of Human babies will never be born, and God-fucking-dammit why did you have to do it?" The tears came again. He didn't stop them. Let them hear the emotion in his voice. Let them know he was afraid. Maybe then they would know he was not a monster – he _had feelings_. "My only regret… is that I didn't take more of you out with me." He nodded decisively. "I still maintain that there is no such thing as an unbeatable enemy… and although I won't be there to see it, I know there is someone, somewhere, with the idea that's going to end this war before Humanity sees its end. I know it." A sigh. "I love you, Anna. Mom. Dad. Lizzie. I love you… and I'll see you soon. Goodbye." He punched at the controls to turn off audio recording.

A jump point opened to his right and he took mild interest in it. Likely it was the Minbari, returning to survey their handiwork and check for survivors. That was fine. He was almost out of air anyway, which only left the suffocation, and he would welcome sooner, easier death.

But the ship that passed into his field of vision was not Minbari.

It was Human.

He scrambled, physically and mentally, searching for a way to let the ship know he was alive, trapped inside his fighter. He watched as the ship made a slow survey of the _Maderna_'s wreckage.

_My weapons. I can fire my weapons. _

Sheridan leaned on the manual firing control, gritting his teeth as he did so. "Come on, come on…"

The ship paused in its slow tour of the cluttered space. He heard a voice calling out to him… unable to respond via radio, he pushed at it anyway, hoping they would recognize his static as a sign of life. Then he fired his weapons again.

As the destroyer pulled up alongside him, Sheridan folded in on himself and let out a long, slow breath of relief. He secured his flight suit and helmet as a tractor beam grappled onto his fighter and pulled him onboard the destroyer. When pressed for details, he wouldn't remember being lifted from his fighter or stripped out of his flight suit or examined in a MedLab. But he would remember sitting up in that MedLab as a ranking officer came into the room some hours later.

"Commander."

Sheridan's eyes bugged out at his state of undress and he scrambled to stand and salute, but the general before him waved off the action with a nonchalant twitch of his hand. "No need for that. You've been through enough. There's time enough for formalities later." A tight-lipped smile. "I'm General Hague. Your tags say you're Commander John Sheridan of the _Maderna_. Is that correct?"

"Y-yes Sir."

"I'm sorry to have to tell you that assignment… no longer exists as a possibility."

"I know."

Hague nodded. "You must've been mighty scared out there all alone, waiting to die."

"Yes Sir."

"Well that's good. Being afraid… just means you've got something left worth living for." Hague brought a heavy hand down on John's shoulder. "Meanwhile, you've kept yourself alive out here somehow, and I've checked you out – your record is exemplary. To have come through all that you have… it seems you've got somebody on high watching out for you, and that's the kind of luck I need on my ship. Once you've hydrated and had a good night's sleep, I'd be honored to have you as a member of my crew."

"Th—thank you, Sir. It would be an honor."

"Get some sleep, Commander. We'll talk again later." Hague gave the tight-lipped smile again before nodding and wandering away, and John shook his head in wonder against the gurney beneath him. A late afterthought rode into his mind and he sat up on his elbows. "Sir?"

The general turned and looked in his direction.

"How… how did you find me?"

"We picked up your distress signal." Hague said it as though it were the most obvious thing in the world, but Sheridan shook his head, brow creased deeply in disagreement.

"I didn't send a distress signal. I couldn't."

"Well. Don't worry about it too much, Commander. You're here, you're alive. That's what's important. Don't dwell on the details." And then the general was gone, and John was left with only his own confusion.

Guardian angel? Hand of fate? Last-gasp signal sent by one of the crew?

Or something else?

Now was not the time for such intricacies. He'd sort it out later.


	7. Chapter 7: Deliver Me From Evil

See Chapter 1 for Disclaimer and Author's Notes

**Chapter 7 – Deliver Me From Evil**

"_Then [He] was led by the Spirit into the wilderness to be tempted by the devil." – Matthew 4:1_

Yes, it's true: I've been married three times. Three times to three very different women; in Minbari terms, which is how I've come to view the world in the twilight of my life, I married one from each caste. I married warrior, worker and religious. It's odd, I think sometimes, that my best match was my opposite number. Delenn was trained to pray; I was trained to fight. Though to be fair, Delenn is not now and, I assume, never has been a typical Religious Caste Minbari. She possesses in herself qualities of all three castes, and that's perhaps why I was drawn to her most of all.

But I'm getting ahead of myself.

I married Elizabeth Lochley (Earthforce, ret.) in 2239, about a month after graduation from Earthforce Academy. Three months later, we had an amicable divorce. Ironically, this was about the only thing – including bedroom politics – that we were ever amicable about. But I will never say I didn't love her. A part of me will _always_ love her – but not as much as I'll always respect her. Later, this would be very important.

(That said – in 2239, I wanted to rip her heart out. Just so we're clear on that point.)

Ten years later, I married Anna.

Anna.

You'll… you'll always have a special place in my heart. We went through too much for me not to say that.

Our story was a happy one, at least at first. We weren't kids at that point – I was in my mid-30s. She was my sister Lizzie's age – and her longtime friend. And, for that matter, Anna and I were friends first, and our romance bloomed and blossomed over the war, so that by the time it was over, when I came home, the only thing I had in mind was to marry her. I couldn't imagine spending one more second of my life alone.

She was a xenoarchaeologist – physically small but as strong as I'd ever seen in heart, mind and body, and that impressed me to no end. I was put in command of the base on Io just after the war, and as newlyweds, we picked up and moved our life there. She never complained. She thrust herself into her own career while I continued to build mine. My father all but stepped clear of directing my development; being a war hero and then getting married goes a long way toward convincing a man's parents that he can take care of himself, I guess.

In 2251, two things of note happened. First, I was sent to help put down the food riots on Mars. I did it, and I did it quickly and efficiently, and let me tell you why: I did it because I wasn't in a position of power to say anything so radical as, "Mars should be a free and independent state," and if I'd said it at that time, I likely would've been stripped of my rank and court-martialed, which wouldn't have done anyone any good. I did it because in the end, putting the riots down quickly and quietly did, I maintain, save more lives than if they had been allowed to drag on. I did it not because I had no choice, but because, all options presented, it was the _best_ choice. It helped the most people. But I don't have any delusions that I made no enemies, that there were no hard feelings. I know I did; I know there were.

The second thing that happened was that the Earth Senate convened after midterm elections that had been held the previous November, and a brand-new senator stood up in the chambers in Geneva, placed his hand on the bible and swore an oath. He said, _"I do solemnly swear that I will support and uphold the Constitution of the Earth Alliance against all enemies, foreign and domestic; that I will bear true faith and allegiance to the same; that I take this obligation freely, without any mental reservation or purpose of evasion; and that I will well and faithfully discharge the duties of the office on which I am about to enter: So help me God."_

His name was William Morgan Clark.

I voted for him.

* * *

"Commander Sheridan! Come in, come in. Have a seat."

"Yes, Sir. Thank you, Sir." Sheridan walked with confident ease into the senator's office, saying a silent thank-you to his father for taking him on all those state visits as a teen. It allowed him to be more comfortable in a situation like this than most might be. He settled into the chair across from Senator Clark's desk, and only then did he feel a bit uncomfortable, as the senator did not immediately speak, and Sheridan wasn't sure how to sit. Straight-backed? Casual, one leg crossed over the other? Lean against the back of the chair, or not? He finally settled for a compromise, leaning back into the chair but keeping both feet firmly on the floor. It was a bit uncomfortable for his long frame, but he managed it. He'd been in tighter spaces before.

"Would you like something to drink? Coffee, tea…? I can have something brought in…"

"No, Sir, I'm fine. Thank you," he added as an afterthought with a tight smile and a polite nod.

Clark nodded as well, and Sheridan could feel the bulky politician sizing him up. It made him even more uncomfortable than he already was, and he shifted a bit but didn't change his posture.

"I understand your father is—_was_ a diplomatic envoy." The governor got up from his chair behind his big oak desk and turned, looking out a floor-to-ceiling window into the courtyard below.

"Yes sir. He recently retired and decided to take up farming."

"Farming." Clark laughed amicably but didn't turn around. "He must have kept you pretty politically educated, then."

Sheridan narrowed his eyes for a moment, glad that the senator wasn't looking at him. It made him feel a bit more relaxed – but only a bit. "No, Sir… though not for lack of trying." Now Sheridan laughed lightly, the memories of his "D" in Civics Education and his father's grim reaction still as firm in his mind as if it had happened yesterday. "It was just never something I had a lot of interest in."

"Fair enough."

Silence fell into the room. At first it was nice – the questions stopped, and Sheridan relaxed even more. But the longer it lingered, the more uncomfortable it became. The senator continued to gaze out his window into the gray Geneva day, and Sheridan wondered if the other man had forgotten he was still in the room. Finally, the commander cleared his throat, sat up straight in his chair once again and asked, "Senator… if I may ask. Why am I here? What is this meeting about?"

"You have an exemplary record, Commander." Clark spun sharply on his heel – faster than Sheridan would have thought possible for a man of the senator's stature – and met Sheridan's eyes directly. It was as though he'd been waiting for the question.

And the answer was one Sheridan had become accustomed to hearing. "Thank you, Sir."

"Not only that, but your mind works in a way I've never seen in any soldier, even during my time."

For the first time, Sheridan was thrown off-guard. "You served?"

"Enlisted during the War of the Shining Star. Honorable discharge." He patted his leg and, though Sheridan didn't know the story, he suspected the move referenced an old injury. "Wasn't in long – just long enough to be a good target." He shook his head. "But you, you're special. The Golden Child of the Minbari War. You'll likely make captain within a few years, and when that happens, Earthforce will give you your own starship."

"It's… a great dream."

"It's more than a dream for a man like you, Sheridan. You… have shown that you have what it takes to go far in your career, whether it's fully within the military or… parleyed into something else."

Sheridan cleared his throat. "Such as?"

There was another long, awkward silence. Just as it cross the line into more uncomfortable than the commander could stand and he shifted his body in the chair in preparation to stand and speak, Clark opened his mouth again. "We have that in common, Commander. We both have big dreams. I don't intend to be a senator forever."

"Oh?"

"No… Between you and me, I've got my eye on the presidency before I get too far along in years. But for now, Commander Sheridan – let's just keep that our little secret, eh?" He flashed Sheridan a smile that felt like an odd combination of a baby-kissing politician and the Christmas Grinch, and then he shifted topics slightly – though reflecting on it later, Sheridan would string the dots together and decide it was quite intentional. "A position at the Orion Command District recently became available. It's not a starship, but you do well there and it's a shoe-in for you to get one when the new Omega-class destroyers start rolling off the line. I've spoken to your superiors and they agree, it's a perfect next step for you."

"And may I ask why these new orders were not presented to me by my superiors?"

"Because," Clark responded, wandering away from Sheridan in a meandering fashion, not headed toward any one particular place. He stopped about ten paces away and turned again to face the younger man. "I asked to be allowed the honor. I wanted to shake the hand of Starkiller, as I've never been able to do." Sheridan stood now, too, and obliged him, but a faint warning bell was beginning to sound in his head. He didn't smile. His eyes, he was almost certain, conveyed skepticism. "And I wanted to thank you personally. You're a rare breed, Sheridan, and you can rest assured that with regard to _my_ dream, I'll be keeping an eye on you. I hope that in your years in Earthforce, we continue to have a good relationship. You've proven yourself to be a man who will do whatever is necessary to protect Earth, and that's exactly the kind of soldier we need on our corner and, someday, hopefully, exactly the kind of man I'll need in mine. Congratulations, Commander. Enjoy Orion. She's the start of a whole new world for you."


End file.
